


The Nights Are Long

by flowercrownsolas



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety trigger warning, F/M, Post-breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 10:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowercrownsolas/pseuds/flowercrownsolas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas breaks it off with Lavellan; she is confused and hurt, unsure where to go from that point. He knows its for the best, but that doesn't make it easy to live with his decisions. Both must work through the pain, through the long, lonely nights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Nights Are Long

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted anything in quite a while, so this should be fun. I also tried a new writing style, which was certainly an experience ;3. Anyway, let me know what you think if you're feelin it. And, as always, thanks for reading!

1.

The first night after his words in the grove, she did not sleep. That's not, of course, to say she didn't try, but after an evening of dazed wandering, the anxiety of being alone set it. She retired early, grabbing her dinner to-go and retreated to the safety of her quarters. The confusion began to wear into panic when she was preparing herself for sleep, starting deep in her gut as she splashed frigid water on her cheeks. It was fierce, a monster that consumed any sense of security she'd had before; it chewed away at her body, leaving her lips pursed and eyes screwed shut. Then it soared upwards, devouring her chest. It left her gasping for breath, even as her fingers scrambled fruitlessly, clawing at her collarbones and her nails sunk into the flesh of her forearms. She _couldn't breathe._

Then, all of a sudden, the air came again, haggardly as she sucked in one breath at a time, her body heaving, her lungs expanding to take in the sudden influx of oxygen. It was rendering her light-headed as she coughed and cried; she let the water cupped in her hands to fall back into the basin as she clutched the rim. She had to get control of herself. This was unacceptable behavior for the Inquisitor; she knew what Solas would say. Movements sluggish, she dragged herself to the bed and collapsed on top of the blankets. There she stayed for the remainder of the night, heart racing, breathing heavy as she gazed out the window and counted the stars.

2.

The nights after, Solas didn't eat. Instead, he retired to his chambers before dinner and went about his business. He had recently acquired some Nevarren literature on the Fade and forced himself to study the words until his mind wandered from the realm of spirits into reality. He found himself time and time again with a heavy book in his lap and a distant smile on his face, thinking of... He closed his eyes, brought himself back to his surroundings, and closed the forgotten book. The sun was just beginning to set, but if he didn't occupy himself with sleep, his mind would occupy itself with _her._

He began moving, collecting the materials he needed to put his mind to rest. Lavender, crystal grace, chamomile, dragon-thorn, rosehips, a dash of peppermint. He pressed the dried herbs into the steeper, and pushed them into a cup of hot water. The mug was fired clay, flawed and lopsided. It served its purpose. As it steeped, he disrobed and cleaned himself up, washing his face gently with lukewarm water. Then, he removed the herbs and returned to bed, clutching the hot beverage to his chest as he waited for it to cool sufficiently. When steam was no longer twisting and twirling off the surface, he ventured a sip. Spine-curlingly bitter. Quite honestly disgusting. He took another sip, allowing the concoction to slide down his throat as he resisted the urge to gag. Then, he took a gulp, and another, and another; it was beginning to take effect. Halfway down the mug, he felt his eyes fluttering and his mind calming. When he had slurped last of the the thick dregs, he pushed his sluggish, protesting muscles to the night table to snuff the candle. He fell to the pillow, throwing his head down and curling his body. Mind numb, Solas drifted off, assuring himself that it was better this way; now he couldn't see what the fade could conjure from his deepest thoughts. Now he could fall into the warm embrace of oblivion for a few precious hours. In his last conscious moment, he realized that his pillow smelled of her hair.

3.

The second night Lavellan stripped and climbed under the covers, exhausted from a night without sleep and a day spent hazily going about her duties. The linen wrapped around her, comforting and kind, and the pillow cradled her spinning head as she worked through her confusion. She'd spent the day walking, striding around the castle aimlessly, wondering at the past day. Why? Was it her actions? Her words? Why had he left her like that, with no reason given? And, the most important question: why had she been so mind-blowingly _stupid_. Seeking love in the midst of a war? She had duties to attend to elsewhere, trips that needed to be taken; the Emerald Graves were still in a state of unrest, the Exalted Plains were still plagued by the undead, the Emprise du Leon was positively overrun with red lyrium and corrupted templars, and she had the audacity to attempt a relationship? She had bigger things on her plate, and even as she blocked out the memories of his embrace in the grove, she felt her duties begin to weigh on her chest. It was time to shut down. It's easier that way, then she can still function, still fight. The Inquisition needs her, even if Solas doesn't. She needs to keep going, the thought hits her and her hands ball into fists with the sheets. She needs to keep going. With that thought, she forces her eyes to close, keeping the tears in and the pain out.

4.

Three nights afterwards, Solas found himself wrestling with an old demon or, perhaps, an old friend. Loneliness and he had spent many a long night together, why should this one be any different? He prepared for sleep in the same way he had the previous nights: devising a concoction to block himself from the Fade to prevent him from dreaming freely of her, of her lips, of her laugh, of her eyes when she listened to his lectures (she was enraptured, she always was). He was just preparing to gulp it down when a chill ran through the room, causing him to shudder as it raced down his spine and into his bones. It was cold, the sheets were pulled tightly over his legs, the pillows were piled one on top of another to support his back, and he realized, not for the first time, that he was well and truly _alone_.

Were she here, she would be warming the bed, figure sprawled out across the mattress, toes tangled in the sheets and smelling of melon and sweat. She would have tried to claim both pillows, pulling them away from him just so she could see the wry smirk that crossed his face as he reached over her body to snatch one away. She would have pressed herself against him so that they were one as they drifted off into the Fade in each others comforting arms. She would have eased the gaping hole in his chest, assuaging the guilt and pain.

Solas found himself smiling at the memory, but his current reality left him hugging the mug of sleeping potion for warmth and doubting his previous decisions to use it. He deserved whatever dreams came to him, didn't he? If he dreamed of her, of happiness, so be it. He deserved to suffer in his loneliness, to languish by himself as his dreams filled with what he could never have because he had pushed her away. He loved her. He truly did, and he had called it off because of that love. Love was complicated, difficult, and it always ended in tears. Better now than later, better she live in blissful ignorance than know the truth about the man she had become so close to. She couldn't be with him. He knew this hurt her, that she felt betrayed (perfect, isn't it. he lives up to his title even today, after he has vowed to change); he deserved to suffer for the pain he had caused her.

The sleeping aide was placed on the night-stand and abandoned. Now, he just needed to find a way to endure the sleep and dreams of the Fade. Perhaps they would be an escape from the frigid sheets he now wrapped himself in. Certainly they would make him resent the chill tomorrow morning when he awoke. Alone.

5.

It was the sixth night, in a chilly tent she shared with Blackwall (Andraste's tits the man snores, no wonder no one wants to bunk with him), that Lavellan decided that things would go back to the way they were between her and Solas. They'd be friends, colleagues; they'd close the damned breach in the sky, and then they'd move on to other things, divide with the rest of the group.

(Whatever normal really was. Because “normal” did not include their evening chats, with the wind nipping her nose until it was bright red and her cheeks flushing to match when she told him of her childhood in the Clan. “Normal” was not long discussions over ancient text, filled with heated words but half-grins that threatened to tear her heart out. A normal, friendly relationship did not include the glances they'd shared from the beginning, eyes gleaming in delight and unspoken affection as they discovered the world and themselves, together. There had always been a spark in her heart, from the moment he sauntered up to her to introduce himself. There was something about him that kept him from being anything but special in her eyes. That was not “normal”, that would have to go.)

The air itself on the path to the Wilds was frigid, and every breath seemed to chill Lavellan from the inside out. She shivered and pulled her blankets closer to her body. It would warm in the morning, it always did. She just had to sleep, prepare her body and mind for the journey. Blackwall's snores rebound off of the canvas tent and into her ears. The whole camp must be listening. She curled into a warm ball, squeezed her eyes shut, and attempted to ignore the ruckus. She'd have to ask the others in the morning if they could hear. Later, as she finally drifted off, she remembered the nights they would spend together on the road. His embrace was perfect, cool in the heat, warm in the cold; the feeling of his nose nuzzling her shoulder, it always helped her sleep.

6.

She was off on an expedition in the Wilds, gallivanting in dangerous territory. He should be with her. _He should be with her._ Morrigan was so confident in her knowledge of elvhenan, but she knew nothing; the Witch's ignorance could get her, the Inquisitor, and all her companions _killed_. Mythal wasn't easy to communicate or negotiate with, he knew this; yet, he hadn't insisted he come along. He should have. He should be with her.

The rug he was pacing on slid beneath his feet, catching him off balance, and he stumbled forward, coming to rest with his hands clutching the bedpost. (His knuckles were white, his fingers gripping the post for dear life. What more could he do from here? Nothing. his hands were tied.) Solas released the post and straightened his spine, closing his eyes for a moment as he did so. She was in danger, and he was not by her side. If she did not return... No. He couldn't think like that. She would return unharmed, she would return to Skyhold, to the Inquisition, and she would return to hi... She would return. No need to be more specific than that.

He moved to the bed and sat down on the edge and falling forward while cradling his head in is hands, elbows pressing hard into his thighs. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing for what could never happen, what would have never happened in any retelling of the story. He wishes that he'd told her the truth from the very beginning. The lies, they may serve their purpose, but they created a permanent divide between himself and his desires. The truth may be harder to stomach, but he wishes to find the tallest tower in the hold and shout his real name from it if it means that she will not only return, but she will return to him. Instead, he leans back and rests his body. His mind, forever unquiet, roams the Fade in a fruitless search for solace.

7.

On the return trip from the Wilds, Lavellan was much more quiet than usual, and her companions noticed. Dinner was served around the fire, a bland soup made of a few vegetables and some meat Dorian had caught and cooked at the same time; it was warmer here than the tent, nearly comfortable. “Inquisitor. You have yet to touch your supper,” Cassandra accused as she stood, her own empty bowl in hand. She strode away, sighing.

“You've been quiet lately,” Dorian threw in. His gaze was concerned. “Are you doing okay?” Cassandra was rinsing out her mess kit away from the fire, but was listening intently. Lavellan knew there were ears on her, Cass's practical ones, Dorian's concerned, Blackwall's curious, they all wanted to hear the answer.

“It's just Mythal. You know,” she paused, “She wasn't what I expected.” That answer should be good enough; she was Dalish after all, they should understand.

Cass's shoulder relaxed behind her and the woman began placing the kit where it belonged in her pack. Blackwall nodded sympathetically. “Gods are like that. Fickle, never quite what you expect” He seemed satisfied with the morsel of wisdom, returning to his soup.

“I suppose you would know, Blackwall. You've had so much experience with gods.” Cassandra accused, jabbing at his lack of faith with a sword of her own beliefs.

“Doesn't mean I can't have an opinion of gods in general! You wouldn't-”

And with that, an argument began. Later, it would be described as a “heated discussion”, but the words were flying with sharp edges, intended to wound. Lavellan rolled her eyes and looked down at her soup. A potato floated near her spoon, suspended in the steamy brown broth. She hardly noticed Dorian sliding up beside her, his own dinner in hand but nearly gone. “You were like this before Mythal,” he said. She refused to meet his eyes. “Something is obviously wrong; I just want to help.” The teasing tone was absent from his voice. He really was worried.

They were friends (they may even say best friends); she trusted Dorian with her life. Still, the words did not want to come. She felt tears welling up behind her eyes, a steady pressure that she had to stop before they came out. She would not cry in front of her companions. Crying belonged behind closed doors, hidden in the recesses of Skyhold or deep in the forest. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You know how Solas and I... had a thing?” She opened them, willing the tears to have vanished, willing them to have never been there in the first place. A drop fell into her soup, creating small ripples. The potato jiggled in the disturbance and arrested its progress. The soup returned to a stationary state as Lavellan gazed on, watching passively even as Dorian opened his mouth to ask another question. “We don't anymore.”

Her eyes squeezed shut again, anything to keep the tears from flowing. Anything to keep her strength in the face of her companions. Dorian wrapped his arms around her frame, pulling her to his chest in a sort of awkward, comforting hug. They stayed like that for a few minutes, Dorian unsure what words to use to erase the pain, Lavellan unsure if she could contain the tears if she opened her eyes. It was uncomfortable, yes, but it also felt relieving to tell someone, to have someone understand that she was hurting. But it would have to end. She pulled away and opened her eyes. They weren't dry yet, but they would be soon. “I'm going to go for a walk. Clear my head,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

8.

_I want you to know that what we had was real._ They were the final words the and Lavellan would ever share; they were supposed to bring a closing. Yet the remark echoed in his head, pounding against his temples. _What we had was real_. And he knew it was true. Only reality hurt this much.

Solas was leaning against a tree, his breathing shallow. He gazed to the northeast, admiring the lights dancing in the night; Skyhold was throwing quite a party. Of course, the Inquisition had fufilled its purpose, defeated Corypheous, it was obvious that they would celebrate. And she would be there, accepting the honor that went along with her position and her actions. She would be drinking among them, cheerful in her victory, and he hoped she would not spare a second to think of him. She had a future.

He turned away from the bright spot on the horizon and back to his sparse campsite. Dull embers lay sputtering beside a travel pack and his horse (she was exhausted from the day's ride. Constantly pushing harder, faster, he had to arrive in Orlais as soon as possible.). There was a blanket on the ground, which he rolled himself up in. He, too, needed rest before the dawn broke. Leliana's people would already be searching for him, and he must vanish before he is found. He must reach Mythal.

He was about to slip into the Fade when he felt something drip from his eye and crawl down his face, eventually pooling by his ear. He was crying. When had the tears come? When he regarded Skyhold, in all of its majesty? When he thought of Lavellan, his triumphant vhenan? Or was it when he remembered all that was lost to him, all that was broken with no hope of repair, all that he could never experience? He forced himself to close his eyes. The Fade would be his escape tonight, where his weary mind could rest before he began his long journey, alone, just as he had always been.

9.

There was music drifting up to her quarters from downstairs, cheerful fiddles plucking happy tunes for the guests to enjoy as they feasted on food and the thrill of success. Lavellan payed it no heed, she was too concerned with what lay before her. An empty room. She had always thought that he would be here, when all was said and done, at the very least so they could revel together and talk. But he was gone, vanished into the night. Leliana had sent out scouts the minute she received word, and they were now combing every trail that led from the Temple, but the Spymaster had not encouraged her to get her hopes up. Solas knew what he was doing (he had lived as an apostate for years, constantly hiding, traveling, he knew how to slip by unnoticed, he knew how to disappear).

And what had he left behind? An unfinished mural depicting every part of their journey but the final battle itself lay in a room full of untouched books and notes. She had visited earlier in the evening to gaze at the progress he had made on the painting; it truly was magnificent. His quarters in the upper part of the castle had been left alone as well, sheets still wrinkled on a hastily made bed. She knew that if she lay there, it would smell like him: parchment with a hint of cedar and lemon. Lavellan had to tear herself away and rejoin the party.

But what of her own quarters? Here, there was an empty bed as well, crisp and clean and waiting for someone to crawl beneath the cool linen sheets. (she found herself wishing that he was here, just to spend the night with her, arms cradling her right when she needed it most.) And Lavellan, too, was empty for a minute, void of anything but loneliness and sorrow. Then, as she slipped between the sheets and pulled the blankets around her body, she realized that she could do something about this. She could prove Leliana wrong, she could find her vhenan. Lavellan smiled to herself as she dozed off; the night may be long, but the dawn will come.


End file.
